


Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps

by eyemeohmy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Illya, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, M/M, revelations galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 04:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17974331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: There's a first for everything. And then the entire damn dam collapses.





	Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/gifts), [babbling_bug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babbling_bug/gifts).



> I meant to write this eons ago, but... you know what I mean? Yeah.
> 
> Per usual, forgive any grammatical errors, I can't blame anyone for them this time. :'C
> 
> Title comes from the song [Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUVT1NZtZPo), specifically the Doris Day cover.

"Never?"

"No."

"Not even once?"

"Does 'never' have a different definition in America?"

Napoleon smirked. "I'm just... shocked, that's all," he admitted. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Part of it was an act, and yet there was some legitimate surprise in the way he looked and shook his head.

Illya sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, tightly wound as usual, but for a very different reason. "I've never been interested in trying," he explained, paused, "apologies, I've _not even once_ been interested in trying."

"Has it something to do with your manhood?" Napoleon asked. "Because I guarantee you," he nodded at Illya's lap, "your manhood's going to thank you after."

Illya's face was turning red, though not its usual angry flush. Well, no, he was a little annoyed. ... Well, no, he was a little angry, yes. Napoleon talking down to him like he was some clueless, pitiful virgin. 

"Stop patronizing me."

"I can't help it," Napoleon teased. He walked up to Illya. "But I have to ask," he said, eyebrows furrowing curiously, "what changed your mind?"

Illya's gaze drifted. It was a valid question. Ever since they started this tryst, Illya insisted only on outercourse. Touching, stroking, frotting, but never penetrating. "I don't know," he said, and he meant it. "I suppose I just..."

"Time?" Napoleon helped. "To open up. In more ways than--" He couldn't finish as Illya shoved him away. "Sorry, that was in poor taste. I'm just trying to lighten the mood." He apologized, hands raised, and smiling. "We can't very well do this with you so... uncomfortable."

Illya frowned, guilty. "I know," he mumbled. His shoulders went slack, tension visibly leaving his body. Still, Napoleon could sense the hesitation, the second thoughts tumbling like boulders in his partner's head.

"We don't have to do anything we don't want to, you know," Napoleon reassured. Illya instinctively flinched and stiffened again as Napoleon held his face in his warm hands. He looked up at the American, expression betraying his unease. “You. Me. The both of us.”

What a stupid thing to be unnerved by, especially considering Illya's career. But it was more than... It _was_ about opening up. Something Illya had never really done before; even at his most vulnerable, even during those times the two laid in bed, face to face, breathing heavily as they stroked each other off-- Well, now Illya just felt kind of foolish.

Napoleon looked so... kind and patient. A man of many faces and intricate disguises, but this one was genuine. He never did ask for anything more than what Illya gave him. Illya felt as if he were being emotionally disarmed. A whole arsenal of weapons, and even then Napoleon knew Illya was still hiding a few knives on his person others would never detect.

"I can wait. You don't ever have to feel--"

"No." Illya's large hands clasped Napoleon's still cradling his face. Squeezed them tight--a bit too tightly, maybe. If anything, Napoleon's gentleness (not patronizing, not mollycoddling, not teasing, not this time) made it even more enticing. "I want to. I do."

Napoleon sighed again, nodding. "All right," he said, easily pulling his hands away. "If at any time you want me to stop, you tell me."

Illya wanted to tell Napoleon that he wasn't a fragile baby bird. But he would say the same if their positions were reversed. Trust was imperative--in their work, and their relationship.

"First, however, you ought to freshen up. It'll help you relax, loosen up."

Illya nodded, standing and walking slowly to the bathroom.

"Take your time," Napoleon said.

\---

Napoleon wanted to make a quip about Illya spending almost twenty minutes in the shower. Take your time, but don't bloody hold it hostage. That would be inappropriate, however, and Napoleon did know when to bite his tongue. Whether the shower helped Illya to alleviate the stress, or make him reconsider all together, Napoleon would respect his decision.

"Feel better?" Napoleon asked. He sat at the table, nursing a tall glass of Rosé.

Illya quietly finished toweling off. At least they'd gotten over that barrier long ago, being nude around one another. Napoleon himself was still reclining in the complimentary hotel bathrobe and nothing else. Watching Illya dry the water from his thighs, dim sunlight filtering through the closed balcony curtains to silhouette his well sculpted frame--Napoleon quickly smoothed a hand down his robe and across his groin.

Finally, Illya responded. "Yes."

"And so you wish to continue?"

"Yes." No pause there, but not quite convincing, either.

Napoleon wanted to ask if Illya was sure, _really sure_ , but you don't poke at a hornet's nest or a giant, currently very sensitive Russian spy. He nodded, put his drink aside, and stood, gathering a glass of water. "Here," he said, placing it in Illya's hands. "Drink."

Illya wordlessly took a few swallows then sat the water down. He blinked, weirdly surprised, watching Napoleon climb up onto the large bed and get comfortable, splaying open his robe. Napoleon removed a few small bottles of lube, placing them neatly at his side.

"Come here," he said, gesturing between his legs.

Illya's jaw clenched, tendons along his throat tight. He joined Napoleon on the bed a few seconds later. Didn't complain as Napoleon placed a hand to his chest, gently guiding him down on his back.

Napoleon sat up, staring intensely.

"What?" Illya grumbled, sheets grasped in his fists.

"I'm enjoying the view," Napoleon said, quickly putting a hand against Illya's thigh before he could sit up. "I need to see your face. See how your body reacts. I trust you'll tell me if it hurts, if it's too much. And it may well be, in all honesty; it will feel strange and different. It always does, the first time. But that doesn't mean I won't stop if you don't want to continue."

"I know," Illya said, inhaling. But God, he felt a tad ashamed. Even with Napoleon's robe open, his cock visible, being naked beneath his partner on full display was a bit overwhelming. He didn't quite like it, and an irrational and childish desire to cover his face in both hands briefly overcame him.

Illya was really quite beautiful. A thousand words of praise ran through Napoleon's head. It was a bit dizzying. But they never reached his tongue, this need to pamper and compliment and compare to Greco-Roman statues (particularly one in his collection he’d stolen). Illya wasn't much into the floral arrangements of foreplay. 

A pity. Napoleon sometimes fancied the idea that Illya, instead of being annoyed or disinterested, would melt by such words. Would untangle and unwind and ask Napoleon, "What else?" Drunk on the sweet honey and nectar Napoleon was lathering him in.

Alas, some things were never meant to be.

(But it would make for another interesting experiment in the future.)

Napoleon leaned over Illya, cupping his cheek and taking him in a kiss. Illya obeyed his instincts this time, shutting his eyes and returning the slow, deep, warm kiss. A thumb stroked along his cheekbone, and Illya reached up, wrapping his fingers lightly around Napoleon's wrist. He groaned against Napoleon's tongue as a hand snaked down his torso, stopped to cup his balls and gently palm.

Breaking the kiss, Napoleon lowered his head down, lips brushing Illya's jaw and throat, feeling his erratic pulse beneath. Illya swallowed audibly as Napoleon wrapped his mouth around a nipple, tongue tracing circles.

When Napoleon gave his balls a light squeeze, Illya arched off the bed, feeling his partner's teeth graze along his nipple and bite down. Immediately, Illya grabbed fistfuls of Napoleon's dark hair, tugging in no clear direction. His cock twitched, half-mast and bobbing against his belly.

Napoleon sat up, parting Illya's legs a little wider to fit between. "We're not going to overdo it, of course, with any excessive stimulation," he explained, wrapping a fist around his partner's cock and giving it a few hard pumps. Illya snarled, heels of his feet digging into the mattress. "Unless that would help you. You're not one for holding back, so you'll tell me if you need that extra little push." He twisted his wrist, just so, and though he'd done this trick numerous times on Illya before, it always sent the Russian reeling, eyes squeezing shut.

Napoleon smirked at Illya's small grunt when he released his cock. He took the lube, laboriously coating two fingers in the clear liquid. Illya watched him like a hawk, almost forgetting just what they were doing. He took a deep breath, willing his muscles to relax--not a very easy task, but it could be done. Napoleon left him a limp, boneless mess before, he could easily do it again.

"All right," Napoleon said, brushing hair from his eyes and Illya's cock twitched, "are you ready?"

Illya inhaled. "Yes."

"Positive?"

"Is this another American linguistic change? Yes! _Da_!"

Napoleon tsked. "This isn't going to be very fun if you cop an attitude," he said.

Illya scowled. "Afraid I'll crush your fingers?"

"... Well, now I am." But before they could continue their banter, ruining the mood, Napoleon hiked up one of Illya's legs, hand sliding beneath him. Leaving behind a slick streak of lube along the cleft of his ass.

Illya tensed a moment.

Napoleon looked at his partner, square in the eyes. Illya simply nodded. With that, Napoleon went forward, carefully and slowly sliding one finger inside. Illya clenched down, just a second, then wound down again. Napoleon felt around his sphincter, probing just the edge of his finger inside. 

Illya flinched, but otherwise remained quiet.

Little by little, Napoleon worked his finger inside, just past the knuckle. At that point Illya squirmed, almost wanting to pull away. It was... odd, a bit unpleasant. He knew it might be like this, but still.

"Doing great, Peril," Napoleon hummed. Sliding in deeper, loosening the entrance.

Illya hissed. "No fireworks yet, Cowboy."

"They're coming," Napoleon smirked. Maybe. Reactions differed and varied by person, but he hoped this wouldn't just be a big waste of time and patience. He was determined to give his Russian partner one Hell of a ride.

It took a few more minutes before Napoleon finally reached the prostate. Illya didn't seem to react; not uncommon. It was swollen enough, and Napoleon was very much flexible-- "Have you ever seen an American 4th of July celebration?" he asked, a grin splitting his face.

Illya looked perplexed, brows furrowed. "What i--"

Oh. 

_Oh_.

Illya did not know he could make such an obscene noise. Something between a groan and a cry. A keen, maybe, but even that didn't seem to fit. Indescribable--that worked.

Napoleon gave Illya a minute to breathe before continuing. Massaging the prostate slowly, keeping a level and comforting pace. Illya sunk deep into the bed, hands running up his face and digging into his scalp.

"No, no," Napoleon said, "let me see your face."

Illya chewed the inside of his cheek. He lowered his shaky hands, his face almost entirely red, eyes misty.

"How does it feel?"

Illya gulped dryly. "Is... is, ah..."

"Good? Not too fast?"

Illya nodded and shook his head respectively.

"Wonderful," Napoleon smirked. "Now, let me know..." He gradually picked up speed, pushing against the almost full prostate. The massage turned into prodding--no pain, nothing too hard, sending soft vibrations through the gland.

Illya bucked his hips, gasping. "God," he choked, " _God_!"

"I'll take that as a positive," Napoleon said. "At any time, if I'm going too fast, or pushing too hard, you--"

"No, no!" Illya cried out, pawing blindly at Napoleon. He was panting, rising off the bed to give a full body roll. God, he was beautiful. "No, go--keep going. Please!"

Napoleon smiled happily. He bent forward to caress Illya's fluttering stomach. Illya immediately groped at his hair and bathrobe, wanting to pull him into his arms, embrace him, kiss him, break him just like--just like--

"Hey."

Illya opened his eyes, shedding a couple tears. Napoleon had slowed the massage, his free hand holding Illya's forearm. "Change of position," he said. 

Illya nodded, not even realizing his partner had stopped, finger pulling loose. He scrambled up, Napoleon helping him onto his lap. Once comfortable, Napoleon slid his finger back inside, picking up where he'd left off.

Illya threw his arms around Napoleon's head, burying his face against his neck. Legs splayed as his knees knocked against his partner’s sides. Though he could no longer see his face, this was so much better, Napoleon thought--feeling Illya practically dissolve in his arms, come undone completely, cling to him and moan and whimper. Illya felt heavy, like an anchor in Napoleon's lap, but still held onto the American for dear life, as if he were afraid he'd be swept away.

Napoleon turned his head, placing soft, quick kisses down Illya's neck, shoulder, and then Illya was moving back, fast, their mouths in a sudden, enthusiastic kiss. Napoleon was startled, but definitely pleased. 

Illya's hands thread through his hair again, holding him, guiding him--

Napoleon gasped, needing to pull away for air. He was surprised to find Illya rocking now, swaying eagerly, riding on his finger. Felt their cocks brush together, flushed and aching.

"Enjoying this?" Napoleon breathed, sweat beading at his brow and tousled bangs.

Illya growled, dove in for another hungry kiss. Every part of him was hot and quivering. Napoleon snaked an arm around Illya, and the two tumbled back onto the bed. As Napoleon continued working Illya's prostate, Illya grabbed both their cocks, stroked clumsily, familiarly. 

The extra stimulation was just enough to undo the Russian; he stiffened entirely again. The snarl he usually made when he came was different. Heavier, louder, enough to almost vibrate off the Goddamn walls. Fierce, overwhelming, and if this were some cheap, trashy romance novel, Napoleon would just orgasm then and there by the sound alone.

Napoleon felt a rush of power; dizzy, heart pounding. He pinned Illya down, smearing a hand in the warm cum on his belly. Illya could hardly keep up with him, spent and exhausted. He tried, though, God bless him. Napoleon took his cock in hand, wet with semen and lube, furiously tugging and jerking.

Illya wanted to help him, but he was still trying to keep up with his partner's kisses. As Napoleon's tongue ran along his teeth, lapping and tasting, he wondered what it would be like if Napoleon's hard dick was inside of him instead of his hand. He choked, corners of his mouth twitching.

Napoleon came in his hand, spilling cum on Illya's thighs. He slumped forward, propped up on one arm. Limp, face to face with Illya, and slowly he smiled. 

Illya's cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he gratefully kissed Napoleon again--tenderly, this time.

Napoleon exhaled, wincing as he sat back. He hummed, lazily reaching over to pluck his half-full glass of champagne from the table. He knocked back a few swallows. "I'd say that was a successful experiment, wouldn't you?" he smirked.

Illya grumbled. "It was... not bad."

"Don't be coy," Napoleon taunted, "I saw the stars in your eyes."

Illya snatched the glass from Napoleon's hand, finished it in one big gulp. He turned his head, spat. "You call this alcohol?" he scowled.

"I’ll shower first," Napoleon snorted, standing and shrugging off his bathrobe.

Illya watched him disappear in the bathroom, heard the shower run. He laid back, inhaling sharply from his nostrils. Glaring at the lamp beside him, contemplating. About positions and feelings and sensations and noises and touches he’d never really thought about before, especially with another man. Especially with this damn arrogant American. There was undeniable submission in most of these little fantasies, but he was too tired to concern himself with them.

Napoleon reappeared ten minutes later, towel around his waist, another fussing with his hair. Illya finally got up, almost tripping when his legs spasmed beneath his weight. Napoleon cocked an eyebrow but said nothing; he handed Illya his glass of water as he limped by to the bathroom.

\---

The sun was setting over the quiet, private beach. Napoleon sat outside on the balcony in boxers and (Illya's) bathrobe, admiring the beautiful view over another glass of champagne.

Illya’s shower turned into a bath; for the best, good to soak any aches and pains. Napoleon almost wanted to climb in and join him, clothed with champagne bottle in hand. No, let it be. Still, he couldn't help but giddily hum aloud to the song playing in his head. _And if I had to choose one moment to live within my heart, it would be that tender moment, recalling how we started, darling, it would be when you smiled at--_

Napoleon grinned as Illya placed his hands on his shoulders. "Equilibrium all balanced, darling?" he asked. It’d been almost an hour.

Illya was silent, standing behind Napoleon and watching the sun set with him. He bowed down a minute later, lips brushing against Napoleon's ear, speaking in a low, husky voice.

"Again?"

Napoleon's glass tipped, spilling a bit of champagne on the ground. He looked back at Illya, alarmed and slightly gaping. Stars in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Napoleon's earworm is [That Sunday, That Summer by Nat King Cole](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDswNlrPrkA).


End file.
